


greatness lies in you

by drunkonwriting



Category: 16th & 17th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Gen, Sickfic, ham has such daddy issues i s2g, light laurens/hamilton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 16:47:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7446520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drunkonwriting/pseuds/drunkonwriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>hamilton gets sick. washington worries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	greatness lies in you

**Author's Note:**

> so after burr&hamilton my favorite relationship on the show (and, honestly, historically) is hamilton&washington who are such disparate characters and yet came together for one of the strongest partnerships during the revolution and the early years of america. i really enjoy the way the show portrays them (one last time still makes me cry hahaha).
> 
> anyway this is just a small sick!fic that i wrote when bored at work, enjoy!!

From the time he was fourteen, Alexander learned to harbor very few illusions about himself. He knew, of course, that he was smarter than almost anyone in St. Croix, that he had a good head for figures and a talent with words, and that there very people who could outmaneuver him in a debate. He also knew that he was a survivor—that he had come through the wreck of his father's abandonment, his mother's death, and his cousin's suicide all the stronger. But, he was also keenly aware of his lesser qualities—his recklessness, his stubbornness, his fool temper, his inability to shut up.

When he came to New York, Alexander figured himself prepared for any sort of comments that might come his way. The point of cataloging was as much for armor as it was for his own benefit—if he already knew his defects, he could hardly be wounded when someone pointed them out, could he? Of course, he could also work on these weaknesses, but Alexander had no real idea how to manage them into something that worked more like strengths. Cataloging was not the same as being able to fix. If a man knows there's a fox in the woods, that does not necessarily mean he can catch it.

So he brushes off Burr's comment about the amount he talks, the side-long looks from his fellow students for his abrasiveness, the sneers that accompany the rumors about his family situation, which circulate despite Alexander's best efforts. Oddly, the hardest thing to ignore are the comments about his looks—for some reason, men suppose that his height makes him a child, and only capable of a child's logic and reason. It's infuriating.

Washington, when they first meet, seems to be only more of the same; his condescension is immediately apparent, his stern paternalism even more so. Some of the soldiers seem charmed by it, some indifferent, but Alexander has yet to find anyone who hates it as much as he does. Even Laurens, usually his companion in all thoughts, seems bemused by Alexander's rejection of Washington's attempts at a closer intimacy.

"Most men would kill to be close with the General," Laurens observes in their tent.

"I am here to help him win a war," Alexander says, even as he finishes writing yet another request to Congress for more supplies. "Not to be his bosom companion."

"Oh?" Laurens says, arch. "And I suppose you reject all your fellow soldiers in such ways? You and I have become close, Ham. And you certainly have no problem with the Marquis."

Alexander signs the letter with a flourish, then sets his quill aside to regard Laurens. He's not sure how well he can explain unless he tells Laurens about his background, and if there's one thing Alexander never wants to discuss, it's his origins. He's done his best to distance himself from them as he can, although sometimes he finds himself slipping into an accent or getting cold too easily—any number of things that make it apparent he is not a native after all.

"He condescends too much," he says, settling on the best non-answer he has.

Laurens snorts. "So do you."

"Yes, but I'm only condescending to idiots."

"And to Burr and Lee and the rest of the aides and—"

"Like I said. Idiots."

Laurens laughs. "I thought you liked Burr?"

"He's a good man and my friend," Alexander says. "But I do not understand him at all. And I have a feeling he and I will never quite see eye to eye on how things should be done, even if we agree about _what_ needs to be done."

"And Lee?"

"He's simply a fool. And a coward. The General would be well to be rid of him."

"Perhaps if you were bosom friends, you could tell him so to his face."

Alexander snorts. "I have told him so to his face."

"Of course you did," Laurens says, though he sounds more amused than angry. "But Washington's not a bad fellow, is he? He lets us speak as we like to him, as long as we're not vulgar. And he's certainly a sight better for the position than anyone else—especially Lee."

"I won't argue with you about his competence or demeanor," Alexander says. "I have the highest respect and regard for him. But I do not want him as my surrogate father."

There's a long silence in the tent. Alexander frowns, clenches his hands. Perhaps he shouldn't have said that last bit after all. What had Burr told him? _Talk less_? As much as Alexander disagreed with the sentiment, perhaps some measure of it would be helpful for him.

"Is that what you feel he's trying to become for you?" Laurens asks.

If he had sounded judgmental or derisive, Alexander would have left, friend or not. Instead, he is simply curious—reminding Alexander yet again how fond he is of Laurens.

"I don't know," he says. "I… I don't have a lot for comparison. But I'm a grown man, John. I have no desire to be looked after."

Laurens hums. Then, to Alexander's relief, he lets the subject drop.

"Come on, Ham," he says. "Time for bed, I think."

* * *

Of course, distance would be easier to maintain if Washington didn't persist in trying to minimize it. He calls Alexander by his first name more and more often, invites him to his quarters for coffee or a bit of bread, asks his opinion about their strategies. Alexander is more than happy to share his opinions, but he's careful to keep himself the height of professionalism. He never addresses Washington by anything less than 'Your Excellency' and always leaves promptly when their war work is over, leaving no time to discuss more intimate issues.

Alexander only has vague memories of his actual father. He lived with his mother for the most part, and Alexander's father would be in and out of their house—so much so that by the time he left them for good, Alexander almost didn't notice his absence. Alexander had always been independent, much more so than his brother, and forging a career and a pathway out of St. Croix had only cemented that self-sufficiency; he had no use for a father-figure, even one such as Washington.

He's just not sure how to tell Washington that.

* * *

The winter of 1779 challenges every notion Alexander has that he can survive in this new country.

He's gotten used to winters. He's had to, living in such a strange place as America, where leaves fall off the trees and frozen water falls from the sky. Before he arrived in New York, he'd never seen snow before; he'd never been in freezing weather before. He knew the dangers of heatstroke, of course, but the cold held its own secrets, and Alexander had had to learn them all in order to survive.

1779 brings cold deeper than he's ever known. Even the veterans, the ones who have lived in New York all their lives, mutter about the chill, the frost, the snow. Their movements are stalled, so they camp down in Morristown to wait it out. Alexander bunks with Laurens, and they spend many of their nights sleeping together to conserve warmth. It doesn't help—Alexander begins to forget what it feels like to be actually, thoroughly warm. Even when he's been indoors for hours, the chill doesn't seep from his bones.

In January, he wakes up with a head full of cotton and a cough. Alexander struggles through his immediate panic—after his illness when he was young, the one that took his mother, he's always been scrupulous about avoiding being ill. He _hates_ being ill. But he knows this rattling in his chest, the bloom of nausea in his gut. He presses hands to his face and winces at the heat—a fever, no doubt.

Damn, damn, and damn again.

He goes through his routine as normally as he can. He's quieter than normal, which Laurens questions him about, but Laurens accepts his excuses of little rest without much qualm. He is almost relieved to have desk duty instead of actual action—with the way his vision blurs, he's not sure he could have fired a musket at the broad side of a barn, let alone an enemy soldier. Writing is no easy task, but comes to Alexander so naturally that he can do it almost without thought or sight. Were he blind, he would still be able to write as he always had.

He spends the afternoon in a daze, shivering and nauseous, longing for his bunk. Aides come in and out to join him, but Alexander has always had the bulk of the writing work, so he spends much of his time alone. It isn't until Washington ducks inside that he realizes how long he's been working—the sky outside is growing dark, and it will be time for supper soon. Alexander doesn't exactly feel hungry, though he knows he should eat.

"Alexander?” Washington says. "Laurens said you were still in—My God. What's wrong with you?"

Alexander blinks and hopes that his stare is steady. "I don't know what you mean, Your Excellency."

Washington frowns and strides forward. Without waiting or asking for Alexander's permission, he reaches out and grasps Alexander's chin with his hand, forcing Alexander to look up at him. Alexander finds it a little hard to focus in on his face.

"You're hot," Washington says critically, examining Alexander's face closely. "And your eyes are glazed. Are you ill, Hamilton?"

"No," Alexander says. It comes out more petulant than he likes, so he clears his throat, ignoring the way it pains him to do so. "I mean, no, Your Excellency."

Washington's frown deepens. "You sound terrible," he says. "And you're clearly feverish—I know the signs, even if you are apparently trying to hide them. Illness in these kinds of conditions is no joke, Alexander—I will fetch a doctor at once to see to you."

Alexander straightens. Washington's hand is still on his chin.

"I'm fine, sir!" he says. Washington's eyebrows shoot up. "It's just a bit of cold, sir. Nothing some sleep won't fix. There's no need to call a doctor."

Alexander loathes doctors. Doctors, who came and bled you, made you gasp and vomit up everything poisonous in you—doctors who did all of that and still couldn't save the one you cared for most in the world. Alexander's hands curl into fists.

"Son, if you're not careful it could get worse," Washington says. "I insist on an examination, and as quickly as possible." Alexander opens his mouth and Washington's eyes narrow. "I could make it an order, Hamilton."

Alexander closes his mouth. Frowns. Gives one, tight nod.

Washington lets him go, finally. "You should lie down until I return, Hamilton. Take my bed."

"Sir!"

Washington's mouth quirks. "That's an order, Hamilton. I'll be back as quickly as I can."

He leaves before Alexander can voice his objections. Alexander looks over at Washington's precisely made bed and back to where Washington disappeared, uncertain. Then, obstinately, he stays in his chair. If Washington doesn't like it, he can just scold Alexander when he returns.

* * *

Alexander must fall asleep, because he's woken by a gentle shove to his shoulder. He blinks and it takes a moment to focus on Washington's concerned face. One of the Army doctors hovers over Washington's shoulder.

"Sleeping would have been more comfortable on the bed," Washington says, mild enough.

"We already have enough unfortunate rumors floating around about us, Your Excellency," Alexander murmurs, ignoring the way that the doctor coughs to cover a laugh.

Washington frowns. "Haven't those died down yet? For God's sake—"

"Sir, if I could examine the patient?" the doctor says, stepping closer. "Jonathan Wilcox, at your service sir."

"Alexander Hamilton," Alexander says and watches, wary, as the doctor kneels down at his side.

"His Excellency says you've been feeling unwell, Hamilton," Wilcox says. "And he certainly seems to have the right of it." He reaches out and presses a hand to Alexander's forehead. Alexander squirms under his touch, uncomfortable. "A fever, that's for sure. And something in the throat, going by the state of your voice. Have you been feeling dizzy? Nauseous?"

"…Yes," Alexander admits.

"I see." Wilcox opens his leather bag and digs around for a moment. "I have some herbs that should be made into a tea," he says. "Drink that at least three times a day for the next week, and get plenty of sleep. If your fever worsens, then we'll have to try something stronger, but as it is, I think the illness is mild enough that some herbs and rest should fix you up."

Alexander accepts the packet of odd smelling herbs with trepidation. He remembers the odd smelling things they'd made his mother drink.

"What did you say these were?" he asks, lifting them to smell.

"Ginger and catnip," Wilcox says. "They'll clear your system and help you sweat out that fever." He seems to sense Alexander’s hesitance, for he reaches out to pat him on the knee. "They're harmless, I promise. Just the thing to get you up and running again." He stands, gathering his bag, and salutes Washington. To Alexander, he adds, "Come see me if you begin to feel worse," and then leaves.

Alexander frowns down at the herbs. He'd rather not take them, since he still doesn't know what they'll do him. Before he can do anything with them, they are taken out of his hands. Alexander gapes as Washington begins to leave with his herbs.

"Sir—!"

"Relax, Hamilton," Washington says as he heads out. "I'm just going to get some hot water so we can make a tea of these."

Alexander spends the entire time he's gone trying to wrap his mind around the idea of Washington making tea. Washington is more practical than some of the rich men Alexander has met during his time in America, and more hardworking than the bosses Alexander has had in the past, but he still rarely makes his own food or drink.

Washington is back in a few minutes with a mug of steaming water in his hand. He sets it on the table near his bed.

"You're sleeping in here tonight, sir," he says to Alexander.

Alex can't allow _that_. "Sir, I must object," he says. "Where will you sleep?"

"In the chair," Washington says, gesturing at the chair Alexander sits on.

"I can sleep in my own bunk," Alexander says. "It's perfectly comfortable."

"Think of it as a favor to your General, Hamilton," Washington says. "It will give me peace of mind to keep an eye on you for the night, to see if you're recovering."

Alexander frowns, looking from the bed to the General. Washington's bed _does_ look more comfortable this thin bunk, and it's much warmer in this little room than his and Laurens’ room. But he wasn't kidding about the rumors. If word got around that he was sleeping in Washington's room, the (justified) mutterings about him and Laurens would look like child's play.

"Sir—"

"That's an order, Hamilton," Washington says.

"You can't make personal desires orders, sir," Alexander snaps, then shuts his mouth quickly.

Washington doesn't reprimand him, though. Instead, he sighs.

"I know you keep me at an arm's length for your own reasons, Alexander," he says, sounding tired. "But please, just this once—allow me to breach the distance. Just this once, for my own peace of mind. You look unwell and I will worry about you.” He snorts, the most undignified sound Alexander’s ever heard him make. “And I will never find another aide who can forge my signature as convincingly as you.”

Alexander squirms, looking from the bed to Washington to the bed again. He’s still woozy and foggy-headed and the bed looks so _nice_ …

“All right,” he says. “I—just this once, Your Excellency.”

“I imagine so,” Washington says. “I hardly want to sleep in a chair all winter long.”

* * *

Alexander is tired, but he can’t fall asleep. He lays in Washington’s bed, reveling in the softness of it—much better quality for the General, even in these desperate times—but stares at the ceiling instead of sleeping. He can hear Washington moving about, settling down for a night in his hard chair. It’s different than living with Laurens, who Alexander has become used to; he can even sleep through Laurens’ snoring now, though it used to keep him awake when they first started bunking together. And he’s no stranger to living in close quarters with other men.

Sharing space with Washington is different though. Uncomfortable.

“You’re still awake, Hamilton,” Washington says.

Alexander sighs. “Of no choice of my own,” he says.

He can’t see Washington—they blew out most of the candles some time ago, and the only one still burning doesn’t give enough light to see much of anything—but he can feel Washington’s consideration like a physical touch. Washington’s always been intense, but no matter how much it happens, Alexander still isn’t used to the full weight of his regard being focused on him alone. Laurens says that Alexander is the same way, but Alexander doesn’t think anyone can do what Washington does with simply a look.

“I have served with many young men,” Washington says. “While some of them have considered themselves above my regard, none of them have turned me away as completely as you have, Alexander. I don’t suppose you will give me a reason why?”

Alexander remains quiet. Washington sighs.

“You are a brilliant young man,” he says. “And I am very fond of you, though Charles Lee has advised me that you are a hellion and undisciplined and there are several professors at King’s College who have some choice words for your academic methods, even if they can’t argue the results.”

“Those old, conniving traditionalists wouldn’t know innovation if it bit them on the ass,” Alexander says before he can stop himself.

There’s a long silence. Then, to Alexander’s astonishment, Washington laughs. He has a deep laugh, thorough and rolling, the kind that makes Alexander begin to smile before he realizes what he’s doing. No wonder men flock to him, Alexander thinks.

“Sometimes I regret not pursuing my degree,” Washington says. “But many of the professors I’ve spoken with have convinced me that it was probably for the best I did not.”

Alexander contains his envy. What would it be like, he wonders, to have the option to not pursue a degree and still become a great man? To have so many options available to you that college is an afterthought, not a necessity? Alexander swallows every feeling he has about rich men and their ways because he wants to survive and become one himself, but he wishes, sometimes, that they could know what it is like to live in the world without anything. People like Washington and Burr and even dear Laurens—they’ve all known contentment since birth. Alexander’s envy for that is bone deep.

“Why are you doing this for me, sir?” he asks, traitorous mouth running away from him again.

A long silence. Alexander waits in the dark, heart hammering.

“I told you,” Washington says. “I’m very fond of you.” Alexander sighs and opens his mouth to say something unfortunate when Washington continues with, “You know, Lee once told me that immigrants could never amount to much. He cited you as an example; your birth would always prevent you from climbing too far and your… meager beginnings would leave you lagging behind the rests of your peers.”

Alexander sits up in bed so quickly he nearly passes out.

“Lee is a braggart and a coward,” he hisses. “What does—“

“I told him,” Washington says as if Alexander hasn’t spoken, “that he was wrong in general, but especially in your case. Lee doesn’t see it, but I do; there’s greatness in you, Alexander. It may take years for it to truly surface, but I have no doubt that it will.”

Alexander’s stunned into silence. He stares across the room, squinting in the dim light to make out Washington’s shape by the writing table. Washington is facing him, but all Alexander can get are impressions of his mouth and the glint of his eyes. Alexander opens his mouth, closes it again. He feels warm, but he doesn’t think it’s entirely the fever; no one has ever said that to him, not even Laurens or the Marquis. During his school years, he was reviled as much as his fellow students celebrated him; some of them loved his opinions while others despised him for speaking his mind. But even among his followers, none of them truly believed in his ability. He was the immigrant, the outsider, the scholarship student. He might yearn to rise up and take a place higher than the one he was born to, but nobody truly believed that orphaned immigrants could make a difference, even in the New World.

He swallows around a lump in his throat.

“Thank you,” he says. “General Washington, I—“

“You should get some sleep, Alexander,” Washington says. Alexander can see him stand, though he still can’t make out the details of his face. In the darkness, he seems to loom. “I’ll go make the rounds with the sentries. Have a good rest.”

“Sir—!”

Washington is out of the door before Alexander can stop him. Alexander stares at it for a long time before he lays back down. He closes his eyes, but sleep is a long time in coming.

* * *

“You look much better,” Laurens says when Alexander returns to their room the next afternoon. “Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feel well, you great lout? I was worried sick when I came back and you were gone.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Alexander says. Anything that doesn’t lead to days of fever and puking up blood isn’t bad, in his book, but Laurens looks unconvinced. “All Wilcox gave me was some tea. I should be right as rain in a few days.”

Laurens’ eyebrow jumps up. “Wilcox? Washington’s doctor? Is that where you were last night?”

Alexander frowns. “I stayed in Washington’s quarters. Didn’t he tell you?”

“He said you had found ‘proper accommodation,’” Laurens says, dropping his voice to mimic Washington’s lower tone. “I had no idea! You stayed in his rooms?”

Alexander stiffens. Laurens just sounds curious, but Alexander, attuned as ever to notions of propriety after witnessing his mother’s messy life, doesn’t like where this questioning is going. No one will respect him if they think Washington gave him promotions because of seduction.

“I wasn’t feeling steady last night,” he says. “His Excellency was kind enough to lend me his bed for the night so I could recover properly.”

Laurens’ other eyebrow joins his first. “And you allowed that?”

Alexander scowls. “I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter,” he says. Laurens smirks and Alexander’s scowl deepens. “What?” he snaps.

“Well,” Laurens says. “If anyone could match you in stubbornness, my dear Alexander, it would be our esteemed general.”

He laughs at the look on Alexander’s face and swings a companionable arm over his shoulders, tugging him in for a quick, fond kiss to the hair. Alexander relaxes a little. It’s nice and safe in here with Laurens. The room is smaller, colder, and more damp, but Alexander wouldn’t trade it for Washington’s for any money in the world.

“He isn’t what I thought he was,” Alexander says after a long silence. Laurens makes a questioning noise against his hair. “Washington, I mean. He’s always so… reserved, I suppose. It’s difficult to get a read on what he’s thinking.”

“That must be difficult for you, Ham,” Laurens says, laughter in his voice, “considering how much you like to tell people _exactly_ what you’re thinking.”

Alexander swats at his arm. “I’m just saying, there are worse men we could be following. Far worse.”

“Does that mean you and he will now be bosom friends?”

Alexander rolls his eyes. “No,” he says. “I already have all the bosom friends I need, John.”

Laurens laughs again and lets the subject drop, moving on to their papers and Mulligan’s latest exploits as detailed in his new letter and so on. Alexander listens with half a mind, still stuck on that quiet conversation in the dark. He’ll never tell Washington, because a part of him still recoils from that kind of stern authority, but he’ll hold that quiet, deep voice telling him that he has greatness in him to his breast for the rest of his life.

 

**Author's Note:**

> according to chernow ham actually got sick quite often - including a really deadly fever during the war where he almost died (again). so he probably would've been used to it but w/e it's my fic i'll do what i want to. washington did have a personal doctor but his name probably wasn't wilcox. and the winter of 1779 was pretty much the coldest on record.


End file.
